But we won't talk of these things.

You can't have the book, and I'm going out." He held up the shawl, which she draped about her shoulders, and they strolled on to the terrace.

The night was calm and pleasantly cool; beyond the black line of hedge across the lawn, meadows and harvest fields, with rows of sheaves that cast dark shadows behind them, stretched away in the moonlight.

After a while Sylvia stopped and leaned upon the broad-topped wall.
"It's really pretty," she remarked.
"Yes," returned Bland; "it's more than pretty.

There's something in it that rests one.